


Smoke and Mirrors

by rusalka (marinarusalka)



Category: Ocean's (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-15
Updated: 2007-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1631120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marinarusalka/pseuds/rusalka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a thief and a liar is not the same as being a fake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Athenejen and Destina for beta reading.
> 
> Written for Jeudi

 

 

"I have to go," Danny says. "It's Reuben. I have to make things right for him."

"I see." Tess turns away from the counter where she'd been chopping bell peppers for a stir-fry, and something about the set of her shoulders makes Danny wonder if maybe he should've waited to bring up the subject until she wasn't holding a large knife, but she doesn't look angry. Just tired. "Are you going to cure his heart condition? Or represent him in court against Bank?"

"You don't take a guy like Bank to court," Danny says. "Everyone knows that."

Tess puts down the knife (Danny tells himself he's not at all relieved) and folds her arms across her chest. "So when you say 'make things right,' you mean revenge. Another con. Another game of one-upmanship."

"It's not a game."

"Like hell it isn't."

"I'm doing this for Reuben."

"You always think you're doing this for somebody else, Danny."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Tess picks up the cutting board -- a nice marble one from Williams-Sonoma, as expensive and elegant as everything else in their kitchen, including Tess herself -- and dumps the mound of freshly-chopped vegetabes into the trashcan. "If you need to go, then go."

"It'll only be a couple of weeks." Danny leans forward and kisses her cheek. "I'll take you to dinner at Lutece when I get back."

"And that'll fix everything," Tess says dryly.

* * * * *

Danny's Vegas clothes all hang on a separate rack in the back of the closet, set apart from the "real" clothes he wears at home with Tess. He takes them out one piece at a time, lays them out on the bed as he prepares to pack. The dark blue Armani jacket has a bit of powdery fluff on one sleeve, and for a moment he worries about moths, but it's only dust. Danny brushes it off and puts the jacket on, stands in front of the mirror with his hands in his pockets. It doesn't go with the shirt he's wearing, but the fit is perfect.

* * * * *

Rusty boards the plane wearing a shiny cream-colored suit and a pinstriped shirt. He looks like an extra from _Miami Vice_. Hell, knowing Rusty, he'd probably bought the outfit when _Miami Vice_ was still on the air. Rusty's not big on wardrobe changes, didn't even bother to try for a more respectable look after he bought the hotel. Years ago in London, Danny had talked him into trying on a black Ralph Lauren suit at Harrods. Rusty had looked himself over in the three-way mirror, mouth quirked in a wry half-smile, and said, "It's not me." And Danny, watching, had been forced to agree. It really wasn't Rusty at all.

 _This_ , on the other hand, is totally Rusty, lounging back in the wide leather seat as he sips his crappy airport coffee like it's ambrosia, giving a knowing smirk when Danny can't give a straight answer to "did she understand?"

"You know," Rusty says, "I walked off a job to come here."

"Most of us did," Danny says, though he'd had nothing going when the call came.

"No, I mean literally. I was in front of the vault, working on the alarm system when my phone went off."

"You keep your phone on when you're working?"

"Hey, running a hotel is a twenty-four-hour job."

Danny imagines Rusty clinging to a skyscraper wall outside a penthouse somewhere, pausing to take a call about a towel shortage, or maybe a kitchen emergency. The image makes him grin. He doesn't quite understand the whole deal with Rusty and the hotel. The place eats money faster than Rusty can steal it, and it's not as if he makes even a slight pretense of being retired. After last year, it's not even a matter of keeping up appearances for Isobel anymore. Danny figures it's a hobby. Every man needs a hobby, right? Tess has been encouraging him to take up golf.

A flight attendant appears with a tray of mimosas and a fruit-and-cheese plate. Rusty pounces on the baked brie as if he expects a world-wide shortage.

"Are they going to serve dinner?" he asks, and sighs wistfully. "I remember when they used to serve filet mignon and lobster in first-class. Caviar, too. These days you have to charter a plane just to get fed properly."

"It's a ninety-minute flight, Rusty. And quit sighing about the good old days. You sound like Saul."

"Ninety minutes, huh?" Rusty bites a strawberry in half, licks juice from his lower lip. "This'll last me about ten. What will we do the rest of the time?"

Danny can't look away from Rusty's mouth. "We'll think of something."

* * * * *

It feels strange, everyone standing so hushed and solemn around Reuben's sick bed. Reuben and a room full of people should be an equation that adds up to noise. Loud greetings and vigorous backslaps and ice clinking in whiskey glasses. This? This isn't right at all.

"He doesn't even look like himself," Linus mutters. He sounds a little choked up.

"We'll fix that," Danny says.

* * * * *

He tries to phone Tess to tell her he's arrived safely, but the call goes straight to voice mail. An electronically generated voice tells him that he has reached the residence of Tess and Danny Ocean and should leave a message after the tone. Danny knows exactly the message he's supposed to leave. Have arrived safely. Smooth flight. Good hotel. Will be back soon. Love you. Miss you.

He hangs up.

* * * * *

Their first attempt to rig the roulette wheels is a disaster, but Danny feels unaccountably cheerful afterwards. He's not sure why he should feel so energized after a few minutes of hanging around the slot machines in a Groucho Marx mustache and a few pounds of bling he'd borrowed from Rusty. It's not as if they had to do anything clever, and the whole thing comes to nothing anyway, but later that night, as they debate their next step at a quiet table at Craftsteak, Danny can't stop grinning. The scotch he's drinking is perfect, just the right amount of smoky burn down his throat, and his filet mignon is grilled just the way he likes it. He's ditched the mustache -- his upper lip still itches from the adhesive paste -- but is still wearing the black turtleneck and the hideous gold medallion. It doesn't stop the waitress from winking at him as she comes over to ask if he wants fresh-ground pepper on his steak. Danny winks back and asks her for another scotch.

"You're in a good mood," Rusty says. He's got the world's biggest prime rib in front of him, with a mountain of steak fries on the side. His right knee is pressed against Danny's left under the table. He, too, is still wearing the same clothes he'd worn at The Bank earlier. Then again, he hadn't been in costume to begin with.

"Yeah," Danny says, "I guess I am."

Rusty doesn't question it, just reaches across the table for the malt vinegar.

"So," he says, matching Danny's grin, "loaded balls it is, then?"

Next morning, when he tries to call Tess yet again (first time in nearly two weeks), Danny doesn't even feel bad about not leaving a message.

* * * * *

"How do I look?" Rusty asks.

Danny makes a show of intently studying him, from the toes of his dusty lace-up boots to the lank strands of his wig. "Like an aging hippie scientist who'll die without tenure," he says.

"Good." Rusty picks up the seismograph case from the floor. "I'd better go then."

Danny hesitates. "Maybe I should--"

"We've been over this, Danny. Bank's met you up close. We can't take a chance on him recognizing you, even in disguise."

"What if you--"

"It's an Irwin Allen. I've done it a million times. I don't need back-up."

"I could--"

"Too risky."

"But if--"

"Nope." Rusty heads for the door. "Gotta go. Say hi to Reuben for me."

Back in their hotel room that night, after Rusty has ditched the wig and the ludicrous facial hair, Danny peels the rest of the disguise off him one layer at a time. The bulky safari vest, the khaki shirt, the shorts. Rusty humors him, sits still on the edge of the bed while Danny fetches a damp washcloth from the bathroom. Danny wraps his fingers loosely around Rusty's, and swipes the washcloth across the back of Rusty's hand and up his wrist. A layer of makeup comes away to reveal the thick black swirls of tattoo ink.

"I'll never understand why you got that thing," Danny says. "It's much too recognizable." He pulls Rusty's hand into his lap and works the cloth up Rusty's forearm, to where the stylized flames give way to the outlined shark.

"That's the point," Rusty says. His hand lies perfectly relaxed in Danny's grip. "Everyone knows I have a visible tattoo, so when they don't see one, they never think it's me."

"I still think it'll trip you up one day," Danny mutters. He's feeling vaguely annoyed, and he has no idea why or at what. And Rusty's grinning at him as if he knows exactly why, which is even more annoying.

"Next time," Rusty tells him, "you can have a turn playing dress-up. When it's not Bank himself."

"That's not the point," Danny grumbles.

Rusty laughs, and kisses him, and slides over a little so that Danny has room to climb onto the bed.

* * * * *

"Hello. You have reached the voice mail of Daniel and Tess Ocean. Please leave a message after the tone. When you've finished speaking, please hang up, or press the pound key for further options."

_beep_

_click_

* * * * *

Linus seems determined to have a disguise of some sort for his meet-up with Sponder. He spends three days trying out wigs, beards and glasses in all shapes and sizes before settling on a fake nose that makes him look as if he's auditioning for Cyrano de Bergerac.

"I know you two are skeptical," he says, "but I think it will really make the difference here."

"Difference in what?" Danny asks.

The tips of Linus' ears turn pink. He looks painfully earnest, and about twelve years old.

"It'll make her take me more seriously," he mutters.

Danny shakes his head just as Rusty says, "No it won't."

"You want to be taken seriously," Danny tells him, "then act like you expect it. A fake nose isn't going to help."

"I don't get it." Linus frowns at them. "You two wear disguises all the time."

"That's different."

"How?"

Danny shrugs. "It just is."

* * * * *

The next time Danny tries to call Tess, the phone number's been disconnected. He thinks of trying her cell, or the art gallery, or her sister's house in Camden. Instead he orders a bottle of wine from room service and watches Oprah for an hour. He doesn't even bother trying to come up with a decent cover story when Rusty catches him at it.

* * * * *

Reuben chomps happily on his cigar, somehow managing not to spill any ash down the ruffled front of his shirt. It's the best sight Danny has seen in a long damn time. Right up there with the time he'd walked into the back room of a strip club in LA to see Rusty surrounded by a flock of poker-playing movie stars.

"The moment you become embarrassed of who you are, you lose yourself," Reuben tells him. "I changed my house, the way I dressed, what I ate... For what?"

 _Good question_ , Danny thinks.

* * * * *

"Next time," Rusty tells him at the airport, "try keeping the weight off in between."

Meaning, of course, that there will be a next time. Not that it particularly needs to be said.

"You ought to settle down," Danny says, "have a couple of kids." _In the next millennium or so..._

Rusty doesn't dignify that with an answer.

* * * * *

Danny's flight has a three-hour stopover in Dallas. He's killing time in a gift shop, looking at bottles of barbecue sauce and plastic cowboy-boot key chains, when the realization truly, finally sinks in -- he's been on this job for over six months and he hasn't spoken to Tess once. She could've called him back at any time. Could've answered the phone. She didn't, and now the phone is disconnected.

He could fix this, he knows. Could track her down, say the right words, find the right apology, the ideal gift, the perfect romantic gesture. He's done it before, multiple times. But the thought of doing it yet again feels wrong. Fake.

Danny Ocean has always been a thief and a liar. He's fine with that. But he doesn't like to think of himself as a fake.

He buys a box of whiskey-flavored chocolates from the gift shop and goes to find the ticketing desk.

"Hello," he says to the harried-looking woman at the counter. "I'd like to change my destination, please."

* * * * *

"Danny." Rusty blinks at him from the doorway. He can't have gotten in too long ago himself -- he's still wearing the same puke-yellow shirt he had on at the airport in Vegas. He shifts his feet a little and rubs his thumb across his lower lip. "I thought you were going home."

"I was," Danny says. "And now I have."

Rusty grins and steps back to let him in.

 

 

 


End file.
